


unholiest of them all

by captainhurricane



Category: Boondock Saints
Genre: Blasphemy, Excessive Swearing, Incest, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>through sex and violence, the brothers find themselves and their God.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unholiest of them all

**Author's Note:**

> there is literally nothing of value in here, really. it's just porn.

they know their God best even when others would call their deeds sinful, how dare you, you heathens! but the brothers live on another plane of existence; their existence, seeing the world through eyes framed by belief and justice. Connor is the one who whispers prayers to the high heavens the most and bites down on Murphy's thigh, imagining it to be God's. Murphy is the one who brings the knives and ties up Connor's hands, grins like a boy when Connor doesn't struggle and fucks him like no brother ever should. it happens before the bar brawl. it happens after it. it happens when they inflict their poetic justice upon the filth of Boston, a kiss when Rocco turns his head and a blowjob just after a successful mission. Connor clutches Murphy during bad times in the night, breaths the same breaths as his brother when God speaks to them through the way the night air feels. Murphy doesn't grin as he murmurs words before pressing Connor's head down on the mattress and pushing in, in, in and yes, this is it- how can this be anything but holy, his brother, half of his heart who hears and feels the same things as he. Connor closes his eyes and accepts that nights are theirs, only theirs. The dirt and filth of the beautiful, horrible Boston roams and dies around them and the brother-angels descend and avenge those who cannot avenge themselves. Such is justice, the one found in Murphy's grins and the way Connor aims his gun with the eyes of a hawk, with the way their voices echo as one. Take aim, take a deep breath. In the name of Father. 

"You know-" Connor murmurs after one particularly hard night; dreams and waking hours spent wrapped around each other, skin against skin; nightmares and visions descending down on them like a God's punishment but it's not punishment, not at all; it's a gift, a burden but something to be accepted. Murphy punches his brother on the chest, gently (not that gentle is something Murphy McManus is particularly familiar with) and wraps his arms around his brother tighter. "We're pretty sin-nh- ful-" Connor grunts, his voice becoming nothing more than a breathless whine. There is sweat on tattooed skin, fingers pressing against old scars that they know through and through.   
"Fuck that," snarls Murphy, voice shaking just a bit; just a bit as Connor continues to move himself, Murphy's cock buried to the hilt in him.

"Didn't we make a fucking promise?" The gentle press of Murphy's fingertips turn into nails and Connor throws his head back, accepts it when Murphy leans to bite his neck, graze his teeth against his brother's Adam's apple. 

"So that all that is good may flourish," Connor repeats almost dreamily, panting mouth spreading into a grimace or a grin. The grin vanishes into a moan as Murphy pushes him down on the mattress and presses in again without waiting, one strong arm wrapped around Connor's leg. The position gives Murphy the perfect control over his brother. Murphy curses, curses and doesn't slow down, not when Connor wraps a hand around his own cock and comes with a whine or when Murphy himself climaxes, keeping himself inside for a moment longer. 

"You can't think shit like that," Murphy finally says and pulls out. Connor wipes his face and rolls on his back, struggles to get up on his elbows. He looks fucking wrecked. Murphy is frowning; like he used to frown when dad didn't immediately look his way as a child or when he didn't assemble his first gun the right way-- or when Connor says something like this, God's whispers far away from him. 

"Only me and our mission, fuck everything else" Murphy concludes and gives Connor's chest a push, making him flop back down. With a sigh he moves, strong hands pushing Connor's legs apart; Connor dutifully holds his legs bent, pressing them against his brother's back. He throws an arm over his eyes and sighs tiredly as his brother's warm mouth descends on him, licking away traces of semen, momentarily pressing between Connor's buttocks (Connor winces, gives Murphy's shoulder a kick; "Fuck you!" only to get countered by a muffled; "You fucking love it") before taking the overly sensitive cock into his mouth. Connor lets out a string of curses as Murphy sucks him mercilessly for a moment before going up to kiss him. 

"Come on, I'm still fucking horny, that was only the first time," Murphy huffs between open-mouthed, wet kisses. Connor bites his lip and gives Murphy's side another kick. 

"I can't go again so soon, you fuck," Connor groans and squirms out of Murphy's grip to look for their discarded cigarettes. 

"But the nightmares bother you more than me," Murphy grumbles and momentarily Connor feels a surge of massive affection towards his brother, his twin, his partner in life and death. So Connor turns away and lights a cigarette. 

"Murph, it's fine." I'm fine. Murphy's long arms sneak around Connor anyway, lighting a cigarette for Murphy too. The smoke fills the tiny room they're in, making Connor slightly drowsy and Murphy more hungry. 

"Let's go eat breakfast then," Murphy mumbles and licks over his own teethmarks, red spots on his brother's skin. Connor shivers, huffs, takes a drag. 

"After a moment, yeah." Only a few moment's later the cigarettes are burnt out, a drink of fresh water in their mouths as they stumble together on the mattress, Connor on the bottom with his eyes closed and Murphy's cock in his mouth, Murphy on top of him on his hands and knees, licking and sucking Connor's dick until it's hard and pulsing, nudging Connor's legs so that they're more bent, Murphy's wicked tongue reaching between Connor's buttocks. This is the way they live; Connor deep in his brother's warmth and Murphy unable to recognize which heartbeat is his, which his brother's. The city calls them saints and sinners and angels, but the brothers call themselves nothing, finding each other in their tattoos, in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit; in bringing justice upon a world which revels in its filth. And if God looks upon them with disdain for their deeds, for the blood splattered on the walls and for the way they moan when burying themselves in each other; well, that ain't their God.


End file.
